


Nightcap

by Vaal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extreme hickey olympics, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sleepy Cuddles, Werefox Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:32:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3209342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaal/pseuds/Vaal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter goes to bed alone, as per usual, Stiles in his own bed down the hall. They always start the night off like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightcap

**Author's Note:**

> Nezstorm: destroyer of worlds, inspirer of things. Responsible for the picture that made this happen (i.e. making it appear in front of me). It is her actual body. What are you talking about? Of _course_ I'm not lying....

Peter goes to bed alone, as per usual, Stiles in his own bed down the hall. They always start the night off like that.  
  
Stiles never goes down without a fight, and always insists on Peter reading him a bedtime story and tucking him in. He gets incredibly petulant if he doesn't receive his nightly kiss. It's a small enough grievance that Peter usually allows it, if only so that he, himself, can get to bed. It usually takes at least an hour to get Stiles to finally agree to sleep, and by that time, Peter's usually ready for a little alcoholic sleep aid and bed himself.  
  
They always start the night in their own rooms, but not once in the seven months since they've had Stiles has it remained that way.  
  
Peter wakes up to the sound of his door creaking open, small feet pitter-pattering to his bed and the sudden sweep of cold air over his naked chest as the covers are pulled away from where they're tucked under his chin.  
  
He isn't a morning person—doesn't respond well to being woken up no matter how much or little sleep he's gotten. He grumbles sluggishly, reaching for the blankets, and cracks an eye open.  
  
"Stiles?" he grunts when he sees the boy at the edge of his bed, then huffs out a breath. He doesn't need to ask, it's never anybody else, but it's become a nightly ritual now.  
  
He sleepily shifts over to make just enough room for Stiles to crawl in and curl up against him, head tucked into the cavity where Peter's neck meets his chest.  
  
"I-they-I had the dream again," he can feel muttered into his collarbone as they lay there.  
  
Peter gets an arm around Stiles's shoulders to pull him closer so their bodies are flush together, puts his nose to the boy's head and plants a kiss there.  
  
"I've got you," he simply says, and squeezes a little. He can feel Stiles press a kiss in response on his chest where he can reach, and settles in, eyes closing as he breathes in the smell of Stiles's hair.  
  
Stiles gets affectionate at night. He's especially physical when he's had a dream that reminded him of the time before Peter and the rest of the Hales, when his parents had been killed by hunters and he was on the run because all of that alpha power had nowhere else to go but to him.  
  
The newfound power is too much for his adolescent body and mind to handle, and he had almost been killed twice before he had happened upon the Hale mansion out in the middle of the woods. Deaton's put a temporary hold on Stiles's powers—will do until the boy comes to be a suitable age and possesses enough maturity for the power to not destroy him completely.  
  
When he gets physical, though, nuzzling, biting, trying to chew his way into Peter's chest so he can curl up there and never leave, the marks remain, sometimes for days afterwards, a result of the latent alpha powers.  
  
Stiles is usually as docile as a kitten, but when he gets handsy, the only thing Peter can do is curl an arm around his back, hold on and let Stiles do what he wants. Tonight, that meant Stiles kneading into his abdomen, mouth fastened to the skin over his heart, sucking in earnest like he wants to tattoo the rhythm onto his tongue.  
  
He always seems to know when a spot becomes too sensitive under his mouth, releasing his lips and teeth, licking over the mark before shifting over a few inches and starting all over again, hungry for the salt of Peter's skin.  
  
Peter only ever gets to see the damage for the first time in the morning light in the bathroom with the shower water warming up behind him. There are always eight to twelve marks dappled over his chest, some with obvious bite indentations, the skin puffed up and red like a real life paint-inside-the-lines inspired picture.

Peter doesn't mind the marks, even when he gets catcalled and wolf whistled at in the locker room at school. To Stiles, they mean safety and comfort along with a million other things Peter suspects he's come to be associated with. It's something he could never take away from Stiles, and it's personal. It's just for them.

Just for Stiles and Peter.


End file.
